Just Fall, My Dear
by Zorrashi
Summary: She was a fool. She trusted Aizen, even when he so blatantly stabbed her. She was inept for her position. A pawn, was she not? No warrior. She needed to suffer. Of all the voices left unheard, she ignored the ones of most importance. She "needed to die". But she is a lunatic beauty. So here she is, in a mind just a cracked as she. Do just fall, my dear...and live to remember this.
1. You Had this Coming

**A/N: REVIEW! This was the exception to my new rule of "don't post until story is completed" code! **

Just fall, My Dear

Chapter 1: You Had This Coming

She had no idea where she was. But she didn't care either. It hurt….all of it hurt. Like she was stabbed in the chest. But that wasn't it. It felt worse. Ten times worse.

Like she was having her flesh torn from her body. Like she was having nails driven through her joints. Like she was having her internal organs ripped from her pitiful form. Like her eyes were somehow or another rotting from the inside. Like she was being stabbed over and over by splintering shards of some metallic object.

There was so much to register, it was almost too much. In a way, it was too much. Her mind was a muddle of trying to properly conceive the mass input of sensory information. And yet, she was still there. Ever more, it continued: these curses of touch that claimed her attention of mind and ripped her unintelligible fathoms of anything else asunder as it went on with its throes of passionate indulgence of physical dissection. At the very least, she later thought, she'd give it credit for how it went about its torturing of her.

It took a very long while for her to have her sense scramble and stumble to something reminiscent of consciousness. It was hard, very hard, and almost impossible, for her to struggle against that seemingly infinite tide of merely a single sensory aspect. There were times when she confused trickling blood with the scrape of sharp metal, or the feeling of nails being ripped off from the pressure of drills into her head. Of insides being slowly heated to magma temperature and of her veins expanding and ripping apart. Even when she gained an unsteady foothold onto something more than what she currently had, she never decoded of what came when, or what was what, or what was when.

It took even longer for her to properly see anything. Her mind was too preoccupied with what it deemed more important to pay attention to. So indeed, it took longer for her mind to take precedence of her virtual situation. For her virtual situation was perpetually crazed in its very perception.

It wasn't of a plain of land comprised of soil and earth, nor of buildings of neat tile and plaster. It wasn't a room of white same-ness nor a scenery of pitch black-ness. Rather, it was of something much more…distorted in nature. If distorted is what you would call it. It was almost an ever-changing scenery, one where colors were almost never the same and where scenery switched from complex to simple all in the same moment. Perhaps it was because of the landscape's ambiguous temperament that her consciousness decided that attention should be paid to the visual miser, rather than to the sadist feel.

Trees of only white outline and stemming vines, and skies of purple mists. What can only be described as clouds drifting high above, their red mist writhing in angry torrents, lied haplessly in the shattered glass of a world. They warped into heavy falling clumps of bright green lead, some of whom in turn, turned into pure black drops of no distinct form. The sky seemed to shatter, only to revert to a dank brown sea of wasted colors. Was this the world of her current occupation? If it was, then it didn't last long. Like a mirage, the view was decayed ever so slowly. Colors blended into proper pasture and forms took proper structure. It took a while for her eyes to begin to see a floor of black and purple stone, each pebble random in its move and permanent location. Along with it, a sky of distinct light grey. The high contrast, of unlikable quality to her eyes, squinted promptly at the recognition. The landmark of a building, notably gothic in its stature, stood glitteringly white in the distance. Yet somehow, the air around it was dark—like an unfettering black fog. Uncanny how it all seemed as though it was already there. Was she so misconstrued in her contemplation that she truly lost that much grasp?

She looked up—or looked where she though was up. Her eyes were dizzy from all of the drastic transformation of hues and of texture and of depth. Her mind was in decrepit condition after the feeling of liquid, solid, sharp, tough, rough, metallic, sand-paper, rust, acid, burning, itching, cracking and of creaking inside her body, among other things. So shame on her brain for being distracted to not even realize the direction of perception. Or of contemplation to realization.

She saw herself, quite literally, above herself. They sky somehow provided an accurate depiction of her current grandeur: Small, frail, unsteady in frame, brown hair in content-ual disarray, skin in pale waste amidst what was assumed to be dank dirt and rancid dark waste and clothes in either tatters or fetters. Her shihakusho was practically singed by an unknown source of flame near every crease in her hakkama and every fold of her kosode. Still fully shrouded of most skin she may be, she still had the look of a beggar's trash. Her hair was untied and left unrestrained, thereby allowing it free reign to go ahead and make a mess of itself: knots of tangled stands—some small some big-, little branches of the material sticking every which way and the hair stands themselves wired, twisted and perpetually non-flowing as they lingered mostly downward. Thank whatever heaven for the dark blue overcoat; the waist length clothing structure provided much needed decency-however small and humble—to the overall appearance. Any warmth and shelter it provided for her was merely an added bonus.

She had barely even registered the essence of the outside condition before she started to actually know of her own condition. Muscles were strained with stress, bones were creaking with cricks and cracks, the throat distinctly dry, parched and deprived of sustenance. Her eyes were strained, mainly toward overuse and overload. Her nose was fine, I suppose; but the mucus and snot coming from it was unseemly and probably riddled with dust particles and other miniature trashes of the air. Her overall appearance in size was quite lacking also; if one were to remove the clothing, they would probably compare her to a skeleton—albeit, a well-structured, possibly thicker skeleton- her skin clung opaquely to whatever bone and muscle was left within that nutrition deprived frame. Not as mortifyingly thin as, for instance, a subject of oppression during the holocaust (truly, _that_ was the definition of walking sticks!) but still nonetheless a rather heinous sight.

She lingered there for a bit, neither really having the urge to move nor the normal motivation of conviction. She really needed to move on. It was not like there any eminent danger. Except, there was. It took no physical form, nor of any scent, touch, sound or tingle on a taste gland. But still, though it had no form, or any real proof of it really being there, it was still there nonetheless. It still existed, and no one or nothing could deny it—though they could try. Then, as if her body already knew, as it could not rely on neither mind nor subconscious premonition, took a step forward. Then another. Then another. The only hesitancy was in uncertainty, reasonable in its situation and continuation. Her eyes were hazy, as if she could still not get through the cloud of formerly swirling masses of tints and shades. Her mind was still fogged up with irresponsible attempts to make sense of what _should_ not make sense.

Yet like everything else as lunatic as she, Momo Hinamori eventually started to see, and feel, and hear and taste. But like her lunatic nature also, the transition was both slow and painful, even more so if the change came suddenly—in which case she'd occasionally backtrack in progress within herself, only to dragged back by a much more stern of a force. Like a dog that had to constantly be kicked or punished, it took a while for her simply stop doing such things. But her anger and frustration marred her desire for a time—as well she should. The arrogance of this state was quite incompetent. But it was incompetent for a reason, nothing unusual about it. In fact, had she not felt like that, then something would be terribly wrong.

She continued on the path, going forward for a bit, then stopped to maintain balance, then continued. However, though she was hardly paying attention to the closeness, the building never really seemed as if she was getting any closer. And as if this meant the end of the world, her heart was corroded with the feeling of sadness and longing. Did she really wish to reach that building so badly? Or was she really that delicate in temptation handling? She really should be forced to rip a flowers petals one by one.

"Welcome back. Though I know you never left." Said a voice.

Her gaze shifted. Toward the direction of the sound and toward the sight of ember. Her eyes registered the sight quite faithfully, finding no doubt in this vision. The fiery wisps of feathers, the red eyes of fire and the body of a slim bird—prominent in its standing—all of which were of a familiar being. She had no need of a memory to recall this being. All she needed, is what she was. Same for the figure in front of her. She found herself at a loss of a name, or even in what manner to address this being in terms of familiarity.

As if knowing this—which it did—the bird titled its head a tad bit lower, as if it was addressing a small ruely child "Perhaps I came too early. I will meet you at the path's end, then." It said. It quaintly flew away, only leaving behind orange fiery round specs in its wake. They quickly dimmed till they could not be seen.

There was nothing green in this world. There was nothing even remotely lime or light green, it was all supposed to be darks and lighter darks with only one light object. But there was. When the transition came she did not know. But came it did. Probably when she was in the bird's inquiry of eyes, its little slits trying to spot even the tiniest of kinks in her being. Its eminence was quite enthralling, even to the lush forests of green in front of her now, with a canopy too full to see through its branches, the appearance seemed dull. The path of which was presumably the one mentioned was there, somehow apparent through the green grass and leaves. So there on, she walked to what she hoped was its end. She heeded not the sounds of "life" around her; not the sounds of scurrying, the gentle hum of what could be an insect, not the single incessant chirp of a pheasant nor anything else for that matter. Shadows appeared here and there, some of horrific apparitions, others of normal intentions. There were even some as looming as a giant, well over the top of her head-aweing the world with its adamant size, slender of motion, and regal of inhibitions. But she paid even that, no acknowledgment.

Perhaps in recognition of this however, the noises stopped, along with the hints of movements among the branches and grasses. Any inhabitants of this place were simply not going to be acknowledged by her right now, she was either unable to or simply was not in the mood to. It was best for them to leave, they could be doing something better than trying to attract this girl's attention. Though it is worthy, in theory however, that only a few remained; though stalking without acting was hardly a way to be productive or effective.

She did not pay attention to time, nor should she. She just continued walking. That was good; standing idle or continuously stopping would not be good for her at all. Her feet scraped against the soil, sending little clouds of dust in every direction. Her breathing was hoarse, her lungs somehow unable to provide their proper function. Her movements were simply ones that move, no bounce in her step, no prescribed enthusiasm, not even the signs of heavy drudging. She just moved to move.

The time that passed by did so slowly, if there existed a sun it would surely have risen and set by now, perhaps more than once. Her limbs felt no lingering knots or coercions, as they have already been driven numb. In the torrents of her head, the waves of pain alone was enough to distract her. In short; time did not matter at all. She could have grown old and died, and it still would not matter. Her body and mind were already in conditions bordering collapse, falling now versus falling later seemed irrelevant. Ah, but just that alone was not enough for her to give in to despair—despite the numerous temptations. If she did just that, then this pain she was feeling would only linger for eternity, and continue till even her soul was wrecked numb and unresponsive to what would have become a normality. Despite how dim, and forlorn that position is….that is what is happening right now. In actuality, the only real difference was that she was moving. And moving, was the only real shard of possibility that something would relieve her of the burdens she was feeling. However, strangely enough, that relief was not what she was searching for; rather, her moving was merely an excuse to move, to live, even if living meant the pain of the seas of anguish.

Though somber and forlorn in being, she was not completely hopeless—even though she was. Contradicting? Indeed. Unusual? Never. But she was looking for someone,_ anyone_,-anyone who could watch, or at least acknowledge her and her suffering; even though absolutely no one could ever,_ ever_, even begin to comprehend what she, the person, felt. For now, at least, the 'someone' she sought for was the bird—er, phoenix. Yes, the phoenix was the only thing worth searching for right now, as it is the only thing that knows why. Why is she here, in this condition, in this time? So many questions which have not even formed in her head, but only so many answers. Only so much of which, she can reach. And fewer, she can comprehend. And only one, as many have surmised, she can use.

So onward she traveled, and onward she suffered. Onward did Tobiume wander, and onward did memories sever. And onward also, did preservation begin to tremor.

-END-


	2. Figures

The phoenix was staring at her now; unimpressed at the results of her recent track. But the walk had served its purpose however, the actual sight—as in they _saw_, not merely _seeing_—within her eyes told the winged one that she probably had recovered the ability of speech, and perhaps of more-than-simple motor movement. Oh how delightful it was that it was true.

"Where am I?" the meek, strained, hoarse voice would make one almost sigh with pity.

"Where you are is irrelevant."

"Then…who are you?" she asked, her eyes almost pleading for an answer.

"Also irrelevant"

She looked disheartened at this, but then asked, after quickly glancing around "Is this…my inner realm? I don't recall it being like this…" she said that with enough certainty that the bird squawked at her rudeness. Why ask if you already knew? Even if she just learned the answer, she should have at least not have voiced it.

She recoiled at the sound, her hearing obviously tender from abuse.

The phoenix stretched its wings, tilted its head back, and then made itself comfortable on its perch. The branch of the tree made the bird feel at home "You will find something of yours over there." Pointing with his beak about 3 feet away toward the north.

A pause, then a turn of the head, and she almost blankly stared towards the said direction.

She stumbled over toward the direction slowly; apparently not too used to the newfound conscious motions. She was getting closer to a tree, a tree of ember—not hot, not cold either—but lukewarm. It stood out like a sore thumb amongst the green. It was also quite small—it looked like it barely sustain her weight if she climbed on it-, but still had a slightly impending presence.

It had absolutely no canopy to speak of, completely bare of leaf and twig. Only its branches, in its orange-red brilliance, were there. They all stemmed out in every direction, like fingers trying to touch the boundless sky.

And it pulsed with energy, as if it was alive. All trees were alive, technically speaking, but the tree of warm flame seemed to give off a strange energy, like it was more than just 'alive'. It had no means of showing anyone that it was more than what it appeared, but the very essence it gave off was just…almost sentient in nature. Like it was almost a being unto itself.

She looked at it, clearly aware of what it was—_who_ it was—and found herself almost crying to recognize its significance. The bird, in response to this, gave what could be called a smile at this realization. She reached out a hand, about to gently stroke a firm branch. But only found it now enveloped in a light pink energy, with nearly every bit of its former life, engulfed without mercy from whatever force sought to have it oppressed.

When she grasped the branch in a panic, she found in her hand, instead of wood, a blade. A rather short one. With three extensions, a pink hilt and a rectangular tsuba with flower imprints. The metal was pristine, glowing in its clean luster, and its edges—almost teeming with the will to cut if purpose was rendered.

Her confused expression foretold of a faint memory that refused to come out of the fog of forgetfulness. A memory so faint it was almost like an imagined fathom, or a dream that never was. Or, just perhaps, nothing that became a dream that she just woke up from, and thus receded with the tide. But the time for thought was certainly not now, not when she held an able weapon in her hand. The chance was too good.

A loud, reverberating voice called out to her, the bird speaking a type of referendum she could not ignore "You can swing a branch but not a tree. You can only make its way to cleave your enemies away. Roots in the ground are stable, but uproot it and you find it may be able. Stand or bend, it is still stern, but never so much that it can't _burn_."

She examined the blade much more closely now, trying to memorize every curve, straight edge and reflection. She has never recalled seeing it before, but it seemed so…familiar. The bird too. She peered toward the said animal, trying to place at least a recall of a feeling of semi-remembrance; for she knew she knew the bird, but as for who or what, finding the answer was farther than the heavens. And certainly more than the blade she now held, of which she had at least, both a premonition from her gut, and many hints from her brain.

Despite how this entity was, in in of itself, the epitome of a mystery to her, she could not help but voice an inquiry, one that was privy to her normal words.

"Was that supposed to mean something?" finding his last statement more puzzling than straightforward.

"Oh? I thought you enjoyed word cryptic nonsense. Well, no matter; I meant what I said."

"Could you be a bit clearer?" She bit her lip, still trying to find her way through the labyrinthine of intense thought while still trying to register the conversation.

"I think not. For there exists no simpler an explanation than what I just said. I explained about how to use that weapon and the nature of the being." He gave a short guffaw, as if he was explaining this to a child-which, given her condition, she might as well be one. Yet the bird said it with the countenance that it was the most obvious thing in the world. And he called the sword stern…

She—er, it…wait, what gender? Whatever, it continued, with all of its regal, incompetent (or is it competent) glory, talking: "But more importantly, what do you suppose is the purpose of any weapon?"

She blinked a few times, the gesture symbolizing the answer that swam into her head "To use as a means of defense." And by defense, she thought of defending someone or something, she was too good to use it for only selfish means….at least, not blatantly. Everyone has to get selfish at some point. The phoenix was still satisfied with the answer none the less.

"Indeed. I suggest a few practice swings, for I fear the instance to use it is quite close by." And with that, the wings were outstretched, a single look was shot her way, and then the being simply beat its wings up and down—flying away with the beating of its wings being the only farewell.

Her look lingered on the beautiful creature as it went farther away from her. A few thoughts more, and then she began to look around, now nervous that her only real company had left her alone in a place she was a stranger in.

It looked decent enough, just vast undergrowth and a lot of trees. The only slightly disturbing feature was the lack of a sky—or rather the lack of ability to look at it. The canopy was thick and Hinamori was unsure that even if she climbed that she would see the endless heavens that were supposed to be there.

But…what was that noise?

It sounded reminiscent of muck and sludge going downhill, or off a cliff—complete with pops and glops of an unsatisfying impression. And yet, she heard a distinct chime of cracks through the plethora of gaudy percussion-like the quick severing of glass from its union of a fine piece of china. The small shrieks, almost like nails against glass, were starting to grate on her ears. They wanted quiet, yet it seemed that reprieve was simply nonresistant.

She closed her eyes in distress. She could already smell the rancid, rotting stench. Covered only by the musk of fresh air, one that seemed to come from a cold day—the crisp tingling on her nose was paired with her mucus's prompt cold change. Now it practically felt like germ-x when it was wiped away, with a gooey texture. Disgusting, distasteful and pathetic…..but not as much as the forms that now stood before her.

They were figures of human grotesque. Like figures of crystal, with every inch showing impaired fraction of light, boundless reflection of surroundings (even other reflections), each cracked panel with a glass aspect of its distinct clear, flat surface; with only the other fragments adding to its deformity of stature. The shards didn't even want to remain in the same place—each little segment shifting akin to the earth's continental plates and thus moving in friction with most and chorus with some, ultimately grinding forth to a position. Or was that a trick of the light? The perception was so impaired that even the "moving" segments were a source of doubt—they were so small, yet each had the same characteristics of a mirror.

Uncanny, as every seam, crack and widening holes spewed forth a most repugnant waste. It was murky, dark brown sludge—the kind that looked like it would lay heavy on your skin if one dared to go into contact with it. The occasional bumps or protrusion of unknown material would appear at times, making Hinamori wonder what really encompassed that thick liquid. It slithered down the dents of the figures, merging with other streams and flowed towards the ground in endless abundance, clinging to everything around and submerging it in the widening puddle.

The same puddle that now completely encompassed Momo's feet, and refused to allow those thin walking sticks of hers to escape.

Their movements were like ball-jointed dolls on strings gone haywire; limbs were arched, bent and twisted in unusual manners, their backs arched and bent according to their constants shifts in weight and their walking consisted of steps that dragged their feet forward, or the carrying of the inward-bent feet to a farther stride. Their 'mouths' were all left agape, leaving only a void to be seen. Their eyes also, were like this, but only a few even had those 'eyes' open, and an extreme few didn't even have darkness flowing from them—but rather a bright red light that spoke of hell fire and damnation, should they lay claim to any soul.

But more importantly…they were after her. They swarmed towards her like beasts that were just thrown some fresh meat, each now starting to lunge at her with their arms, mouths, elbows—anything at their disposal so that they may reach her, as they too, had to navigate the sewage. Had they not stood there for so long in what can be considered wonderment, then perhaps they could have skewered her by now.

Her absence had been long, though their conception was recent. Having her so sweetly presented, and in such fine condition—ragged as she may be-it was like dangling the sweetest of ambrosias in front of demons. This was the absolute most they could have hoped for….if they were even capable of hoping. Their beast-like minds could hardly understand the concept of stability, much less recovery and what came with it.

They were relatively few in number, about five at most. Each a potential threat to her life, and each, now surging toward her, their malicious, lustful and depraved intent overflowing from their breathing of hollow air and sounds of mangled, shrieking, growls and moans.

Just imagine being gripped or ripped by thousands of shards of glass, each with the power to simply ravage flesh until it was all torn through, with muck seeping through every wound and gore imbued, faithfully contaminating any chance of healing and inducing the harm to rot and decay further and further, till it ate itself.

The threat was at hand and Hinamori was not too keen on simply dying here. A natural impulse, no?

Her limbs moved with the grace of trained habits, and her eyes darted to every position that required watching, aiming or knowing. Her legs—even with the obstacle of the waste—still moved and planted themselves where balance and stability may be found for every strike and swing of that blade, so arduous, dangerous and brilliant in every move.

And the balls of fire that occasionally spewed from it: deadly, beautiful and rampant in their emission. Each bundle of energy being reduced to mere ember upon impact, with whatever was hit reduced to smoldering, light grey ash—if there was any ash to be left.

The fear that seeped from her heart was very easily overridden from the raw instinct to live-to exist longer—as this place was not a hell, she has every reason to not go back. The peace and calm from before, despite the fear of the unknown that hounded her even then, was enough to assure her that she could attain something better than what these creatures offered.

But still, fear makes one prone to mistakes and error. She was no exception. The waste was starting to disappear, but despite that…

The bits of glass that now stuck out of certain parts of her body stuck out like thorns. The sweat from her brow now only stung the cuts. Bruises were nonexistent, only wounds of fleshly holes and penetrated skin. Nearly every one, having at least a handful of rancid mud marring the wounds further—their sting making her keener to their presence, and their stench making her mind muddle from its odor.


	3. Remember the Lord

Just Fall, My Dear: Chapter 3

Remember the Lord

She stood there, covered with wounds. Every spike, cut and penetration very aware to her, and all ever so slightly, becoming worse by each second. Like creeping fears and slithering doubts. Like hexed whispers and blessed shouts. Something was beginning to come forth to her mind all too slowly, as well as all too quickly.

It was something vital, but also something vile. Its coming could be compared to a terrible, flooding storm to a parched desert. So deprived for something so necessary, but devastating in the ferocity of which it came. These memories, were sweet at first. All too eager to get reacquainted with a happy demeanor. Then they became all to biter. In ecstasy to throw upon her, the reality.

Aizen…oh how he was a thoughtful, calm, cultured being. One that led this girl oh so gently onward like a stern father, and blurred the boundary between diligent loyalty and apathy of his induced inertia.

The tender embrace. The piercing steel. The comforting scent. The metallic stench. The calm voice. The chilling statement. His betrayal was sudden, unexpected and without call or warning. No subtle change in manner. No hidden messages in words. No hesitancy in any action he did that would betel of his desertion. The letter he left, filled with strokes of his practiced hand. His actions before the arrival of his "corpse", handled with the same tenacity that he earned the title of "taicho".

He made a carefully woven illusion made of silk, linin and nectar, and gently wrapped her in it. Then proceeded to tie the few loose strings of a spider's soft, durable thread, around her wrists the she allowed to be bound-relishing in its feather light, slightly ticklish, constraint. For a spider's web is more durable than steel, and can stretch the entirety of the world if so neatly strung.

She felt the awe of first laying eyes on his powerful form, the feeling of innocent longing upon realizing her goal, the sweet pang of following her endeavors, the happiness of finally attaining them and then the sudden torrent of sadness and despair that overtook her when she found his pierced body. Then having that repeat again, save for the sorrows, when he appeared again. Only to quickly crumble into confusion, desperation and degradation when he so quickly….ruthlessly, and without any apparent remorse….

To have her feelings so carefully built, to topple the main pillar to have it crumble, over so many years of careful construction. Then rebuilding it in a moment…..only to thoroughly reduce it to rubble without any hope of revival. All of that in a mere moment.

All in a mere moment as well, was this recollection. And it came in such a torrent of an unyielding surge—one that could neither slow down nor be averted or avoided—that her mind, in addition to her sensations of beginning turmoil, finally erupted in the only 'material' form they could.

She screamed. As if the pain of her wounds finally reached her. It pierced the ears of all who cared to hear and curdled the blood and essence of all who in that realm, remained.

It was only when her throat was became raw and her breath became short, did she stop. No more.

But it was all past, the worst of it anyway. It took a mere instant of silence, before her mind began to flash images of experiences forgotten, feelings abandoned and thoughts recovered. Her life was slow to be recalled…or what parts she was capable of remembering. There were still many blanks, holes and omissions in both words and actions. At times, there were major, yearlong gaps. Despite being only an incomplete product as compared to her mere scrapes from before, this "improvement" was still a step forward.

But the void it left was still there, waiting to be filled with something. Something that she simply could not find here, no matter how much she would search.

She was no longer in a real society composed of others, only her own mind. The beings that she encounters are only her fathoms, and unconscious segments. Her 'life' where she interacted with beings unconnected to her, and did actions that impacted only the ones involved and not the world, and where every beings was an organic substance of their own. Not so….connected in essence…..it made her feel hollow, knowing that this world was only her own.

"Heed not the oaths of times past. Just flame your throat with wine and chill with memory, your heart. Obey only the promises of your dulled mind." The voice was calm, yet forlorn, and could belong to only one being.

She looked toward her left, and found her looking at the form of her fiery winged friend, peering at her from the ground. She spoke not. But her question still registered.

All it did was ruffle its feathers before gliding to the nearest tree "A fact that you should know better than others, dear, is that ignorance is bliss. But more importantly…" it looked toward the wooded depths "Shall we go on?" and flew. His sudden reappearance left Hinamori quite baffled, but the same entity was also her only real guidance.

So she followed. Her tears flowing down her cheeks and now too weary, too tired, to rebel against the command. Though it came in the form of an invitation.

It was a silent march, though her thoughts were in turmoil—trying to put the pieces in the right place.

'_There was a reason! Why would he betray me like that?!'_

No matter how hard she tried to put the pieces together, her end result was always the same, with absolutely no difference from her original conclusion. The reason, so far, was unfathomable. The actions were contradicting. Yet the small, subtle hints in his demeanor were all so normal that no amount of deliberate deception could be found. His words were normal too, and his actions backed them; and that spoke volumes in and of itself. But none really pointed toward a cause. It was all so benign to her, so foreign, so incomprehensible. Yet...

Her head was jarring now, the headache imminent and coming. Like her head was about to burst from the inside pressure. The words, actions, intention—both possible and plausible—and even crazed theories swirled throughout her mind. She seemed to lose herself there, not caring for the time passing, despite her distinct awareness of where she was walking.

It was really bad now. She cried even more, the inside distress needing to find an outlet. She heard a buzzing, then a ringing—a sure sign of her distress, of the compounding confusions and delusions. Even though those delusions were being refuted by logic, they still came forth with every impulse of a possibility—with no singular fate being too bizarre or twisted for conception.

'_Surely….surely, there must be a reason?!'_


	4. Make some sense

Just Fall, My Dear

Chapter 4: Make some sense

Momo was drowning. Amidst misunderstanding and utter despair. As well as literally; this sea was extensive, and likely unending. The peculiar gravity of the currents pushed against her on all sides: up down, left, right and sideways. They felt strong, but water, unless it was in a storm, never really seemed to be that forceful. But it was none the less, slightly condensing. She kept on repeating the stroking motions of her arms forward, and kept on kicking her legs, intent on following that glint in the distance, that barely made an orange, flickering star in the distance. Apparently even water never delayed the flight of that creature.

But she was not so fortunate. Here, so deep in this sea, she felt like she bore the weight of the earth. Her breath quaked and shivered and huffed in unsteady pants. The dark was so encompassing, that it made her breathing that much more difficult, like it was intentionally stealing her breath. Every opening of her mouth was greeted with the rush of saltwater, parching her throat and mouth and draining down her throat—already overflowing from the back and choking her. Even though she still breathed. And everyone knows saltwater makes you sick, in more ways in just one; she felt like throwing up and felt horrid. Like her stomach was churning and doing backflips.

Her bones ached from the weight, her joints creaked under the pressure. Her breath was getting stolen, and her herself was overflowing. Every little droplet, she was sure, was condensed sorrow that would make her mind go into a plethora of fits if she dared take it.

But she was submerged in it. And her mind was hardly stilled, rather, it was in a typhoon—nay, worse than that.

Reason was being ripped asunder by woes. The formerly distinct lines between right and wrong was steadily being cut and snipped by incessant doubts. The views of her life being tainted by narrow pessimism. And she barely noticed this. She was far too concerned with her thoughts. How she managed to think all that, feel all of that, and still manage to have a steady grip on what she was doing in her little mind, is far beyond the understanding of almost everyone. Except herself. Or perhaps, everyone could understand, they just lacked the circumstance.

He was the epitome of a perfect taicho; he was caring, benevolent, humble, strong, skilled, talented and all in all, excellent in nearly every subject. He was never too soft when a subordinate disobeyed a rule, nor to overbearing when the severities of battle were upon them. He faced every battle with adversity and honor. He spoke words of encouragement and moral guidance when the road on life was hard to see. He, when the situation allowed, even occasionally embraced a saddened underling. But he never crossed boundaries under any circumstances; he knew his social limits and what made who uncomfortable.

But even with those virtues, he still had his flaws—however few. He occasionally gave advice when it was unwanted, though good intentioned, truth can be harmful. He nearly always forgot to assess the quota for the squad every month, or messed up on minor calculations (which she always fixed). He almost always intervened in a fight that was one-sided against one of the gotei 13 soldiers of which he was sent on missions with. And he even had prolonged absences every four months or so—lasting anywhere from 12 hours to a day—despite the amount of paperwork that needed to be finished, or the training of the lower ranks that needed to be assessed. But she always made up for that. Who was she to pry into her taicho's private life? After all, she used to visit her grandmother for days at a time.

His concern for those under him was genuine, as was his compassion. A liar couldn't possibly have been able to constantly show such understanding every day of his life for that long.

So why? Why did he impale her? Why did he deliberately allow her bleed on the floor?

The causes could be narrowed to a mere thousand. Causes that made no sense. That bespoke the betrayal of another that was not him, that spoke of a lie of a life. None did any justice to Aizen Sousuke in neither countenance nor desire.

So the answer was obvious: he _didn't_ do that. Any of that.

The horrible scene was just a nightmare instilled into her. By a mind's warden or a subconscious writ, that delusion had to be put there for her mind alone, and not the outside world of which she no longer currently cared. Perhaps to jog her memory? It was certainly effective, if that was the case. Or maybe it was to spur her into this intent thought? It certainly made her more aware of who she, as a person, was.

But if what she had just ascertained was true…then what else was a lie?

For such things to be inserted into mind, then surely other untrue things must also be there to simply stimulate a response from her—whatever that response may be. Was it some of the people? The events? The words spoken? Was her life at certain times, even the real thing? Who was to say that it wasn't all an elaborate dream?

She knew Aizen was real. She knew the Gotei 13 was in her profession. She knew a certain amount of names, some close, some distinctly professional and not worth any amount of personal reverence. But the details…which ones were misconstrued?

Ah, she's gagging now. She should be glad she's getting a swim, it was the closest thing she was getting to a bath and decontamination. The sludge apparently, didn't have an affinity for this sea. Most deteriorated after first contact. Now the glass on the other hand; most were thrown off by the currents, an extreme few were lodged further into her body. The salt upon the open wounds stung for a bit, when she first entered, but eventually numbed to barely nothing.

But now she's starting to feel like something was pricking her skin a thousand times over. Not like snips and nails, mind you. But like annoyances that can stem from say, sand. It was sand.

Momo blinked a few times for a second, before churning in her stomach reached an all-time high before its contents were regurgitated, not really caring if it cut off her air supply in the process. She had not eaten of course, but her stomach was desperate to get rid of the sea's contents. After all, it consisted of salt, and the blood and other wastes of its inhabitants, right? The occasional seaweed didn't help either. Or was it desperate to get rid of the sorrows?

The dry sediments were stained with dark green chunks and foul-smelling water that was mixed from her inside acids. She gasped for air, trying to gulp as much as she could in before another purging overtook her. Her form was on its hands and knees, and unsteady on all accounts.

Her head was suddenly afflicted with a sharp pang. The kind that was only inflicted with the purpose of gaining attention. She turned to give a tired, but sharp glare to the bird.

Not being too happy to be interrupted as of right now, she gave a snappy retort "Get away from me, damn phantom!" she looked away, and tried with reluctant arms, to pull herself up. Her voice held so much malice and venom that most would simply back away from such a foul-mouthed temper.

The bird merely said, in a rather cocky voice ""I am not so much a phantom as much as I am a specter. I am not conjured out of anything wrong, but something inside of you is." He said it with certainty, and almost seemed to be jovial at the thought of her current condition. The curve of its beak was slightly arched upward, the feathers on its head were ruffled slightly so as to express excitement. Its eyes were more open now as well, practically glinting with amusement.

Hinamori shuddered, the sudden quaking in her back, noticeable to the extreme. Had the words stroked a chord? Maybe. Was she just cold? Perhaps. But the phoenix seemed "happy" nonetheless. It seemed to have gained a gait in its movements and bounce in its subsequent flights. She even heard it laugh a few times as the roles were switched, with Hinamori leading and the bird following.

She had no real direction, but she kept on walking anyway. She was intent on not following what she deemed, a trick of her mind. Her mind was clearly her enemy now, making lies and distortions and tricks and illusions.

If her mind did this much to her, then this 'specter' as well, was probably her mind's messed up, twisted concoction. Thus, she decided, she best not deliberately follow it. Perhaps not even heed anything it says. She even had the thought of killing it, mutilating it and ultimately destroying it. Of which, she later acted upon.

But the devilish fiend merely avoided every swing of her blade, disappeared like a will o' the wisp at every punch and kick and tilted mere appendages to avoid anything else she tried to inflict damage on.

All the while, it laughed, chuckled and even outright mocked. "Oh ho! You think I am the hallucination of a mad-man—er, woman. Or is it girl?

"Shut _up_!" She hated how this _thing _acted like it knew everything about her. Like it knew her insides and outsides. Her thought process and her movement's patterns. A few more punches. A few more kicks. A few more provocations of her sword. She attacked with such ferocity and animosity, that it almost seemed she was an animal. The anger and hate was not even attempted to be hidden. She did not even hold back in any of her attacks; each was meant to maim, scourge and deviate. So she could decapitate this being from being pristine in its composure.

It took a long while for her to finally tire out.

The bird was barely a few feet away, still staring at her with that regal sense of knowing "Whatever the case, I am the inexplicable consent of _you_. No, not your mind, _you_. Or is it really just the mind?" and he said it like he was saying this to a child, the amused discerning notation in his voice lathered his instinct to remain.

This is going to be a long voyage. When did she start differentiating between herself and her mind?


	5. Crack A Bit

a/n Tell me: Is the pacing going too fast? Too slow? Do you want more physical (or is it mental?) action? Or more self-reflection? Are the descriptions too…um, vague or lacking in some manner?

REVIEW TO TELL ME!

Just Fall My Dear

Chapter 5

Crack A Bit

She was still walking, neither turning back, nor harboring a single shard of regret. This was because she did not miss what she was leaving behind. That, or she thought something better than what she left was ahead of her. But even such a resolute walks still have dangers.

"Don't you know what is left behind can come back to haunt you?" Jeered the phoenix, still following the dear leader of whom still despised its presence.

She ignored the question, fully intent on not acknowledging him. She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to see it and she certainly didn't want to follow it. She, therefore, didn't want to acknowledge it. She was instead focused on her surroundings. Even she had to inwardly admit that she was a little excited at the scenery. It was not extravagant or even remotely beautiful to her standards, but it did lack the dreary persona that her former areas had.

Though this desert was deprived of any water or liquid, it was calm and still with barely even a breeze to disturb it. Contrary to what one would expect, the sun that was brightly stationed in the sky didn't beat down waves of heat. But it was still toasty, even with the light breeze. Sure, the sand in her waraji was something left to be desired, but what was a little sand in comparison to a hungry sea that sought to submerge her and a forest that intentionally wanted her to lose her way….or the dark that sought to devour her.

She looked better now, by which means that she looked more well-fed. Her bones were no longer so easy to spot and her appearance overall better sported its emotion and expression. Amazing what a bit of cheek fat can do to emphasize a scowl. Or some texture to her appendages so as to not make it look like her joints would snap at any second.

Reflecting such changes was her thoughts, now fueled with a special vigor and no longer slowed by exhaustion—though this meant more energy to potentially kill the bird behind her. But then, it never worried of such. Instead, such things were a promising step forward. But even the bird had to keep an extra eye open. After all, god forbid if she actually snagged one of the feathers in her tantrums!

However, the sand was a tad bit of an annoyance. The stray bits that were made airborne occasionally went into her cuts or got stuck in the many crevices of her attire. It was scratchy, itchy and provocatively attention grabbing. Some parts of her skin felt like bugs were crawling on it, though every glance was only met with only skin (or at times, a wound). Occasionally, a few red thin lines would appear because of her scratching. In fact, they were steadily starting to increase in number. It was starting to become incessant as well.

In her walk, she has been pondering for quite some time, on the rationale of the changes she has been seeing. A forest to sea, then a sea to a desert. From her traces of memory, no such regions even existed in her inner realm before. But there must be a reason for such transformations.

It likely just her mind's way of putting her scrambled emotions into a conceivable perspective. That's what it was supposed to do, right? But her mind was so messed up…..she had to set it right. Even if it meant scorching this place to ash and oblivion and tearing its very fabric to shreds and unrecognizable remains. Even if it meant smashing every inhabitant and ruthlessly dispatching every remnant and reducing it to mere memory (if even that).

She leered back at the flying creature behind her. She had considered long ago making a vow to obliterate that creature first, but it seemed too elusive to properly capture. She tried to losing it by running in a random direction once, only to find it waiting for her when she ran out of breath. Another time she tried preventing its path of flight putting up a wall of Kido, only to find that such things meant nothing to creature, as it simply flew through as if the steady wall didn't even exist. So how high were her chances then, to kill the creature? Non-existent.

But perhaps if she gained a foot hold in her realm first before making that move…..

"Pay attention will you please? Having you ignore a situation can be hazardous to some of us in here you know." It said.

Once more, she paid it no heed as she took another speedy step forward.

Only to be surprised at the squishy texture her foot met. Her gaze soon came upon the form of mud. The kind of the light brown variety, and gooey to boot. The cold, clinging texture was almost…exciting. In a childish sort of way. It even felt sort of refreshing from the warmth of the sun. Perhaps if she wasn't in such a foul mood, she would have enjoyed it a bit. But her excitement was covered by annoyance.

A few shakes of her foot to shake off the murk, then she started to wander on. Intriguing really, how she thought nothing of a random puddle of mud in a dry desert.

But it grabbed her. A distinct hand from that conglomeration of sediment was clearly grabbing her ankle. It lacked a vomit-inducing stench and a grimy texture, having in its stead what one would imagine from simple mud; moisture and a mere earthy texture—completely devoid of anything remotely like a feeling like sand-paper. In other words, not what she had encountered before. No glass, no shards and no shattered knives.

So far it didn't do anything to her. _Wasn't_ able to do anything to her. A silver flash went by before a gust of fiery wind appeared, leaving nothing where the puddle once was. The desert was a desert again. Nothing else.

But she was wrong.

There, right in front of her, was another one (assuming it was different than what she had just attacked). No feet were visible, just incomplete legs oozing mud from its base of a muddle of a puddle. It was hunched over, like the heat was oppressing it into submission, ruthlessly beating down on the figure till it bent down to grovel to the almighty sun, its head grinding into the sand.

Its knees were poking into the sand, as if it was bearing the weight of a vengeful sin. Its arms were limp, and hung down its sides till it made contact with the ground, finding its only support there—in the ground that never left. Except here. In these sands that shifted eternally, no such support was infinite. It could leave with the waves of the sand, and reappear with the monsoons. If the fates so desired, this plane would be forever enveloped and shrouded in a storm of whirling sands.

No amount of begging, praying or revering would divert the catastrophe. They may garner omens if strongly persevered. This was no such case. But perhaps it was.

Facing her, it looked like a pitiful sight. Her eyes winced a bit, like she was looking at trash. Like she was looking at an abomination of the world. She subsequently, in response to her impulses, raised her sword once more. To purge this world of any and all anomalies and other deformities; that was the goal she now had. But her moment of willful hesitation, was she would allow to be spared from her heart.

Though she had no real inkling of a real, legitimate reason; her judgment was set. It held no memory, neither forged nor reclaimed, thus it was not a record. It had in its possession, no tool or relic, so it was not a possession forgotten. It had also, no obvious feelings or emotions, so it was not an abandoned product of her former self. Nor did it have anything else that would redeem it for its blasphemous existence, nor its deliberate trespass into her presence when she so clearly, did not want company.

So with her sword poised for a strike, she did let that blade fall. Its ring forever reverberating to call out to world about to be reconquered.

But it wasn't simply her world to reclaim. And yet the resolve within that blade still sung regardless; fully intending to carry out the will of tis master. That master, so crazed, blind and determined. Determined to set things right and return to her rightful place by his side.


	6. Not A Queen, But Dictator

Just Fall, My Dear

Chapter 6

Higher and Lower

She was never god, nor will she ever be. Her right to rule, even in this place, had to be just as sought for and fought for, as any other mortal realm. But her supposed entitlement to reign, was understandable, given that she never had a legitimate competitor aside from the norm.

Any person can give up their freedom—either willing or unwilling. Why else did there exist the term "slave" or "vassal" exists? Any person can lose themselves in the ecstasy of the material, giving free dominion to their hedonistic impulses. Such were known as "addicts" because they lost the ability to refuse—the prime, distinct power of a ruler. Even if only in the presence of a substance, even if only for a moment, or in a specific circumstance; the moment one loses the ability to determine one's own course—be it painful or blissful—then one is no longer a ruler. Rather, they are the "ruled".

For any person, with their own storage of information and feelings of all manner of sin and virtue, should one give even a single chain of the mind and heart to the primal instincts of the original beasts, then one is simply no different than an animal. Which is why infants take the first step of sophistication when they gain the ability to 'think', as in have thoughts of their own—no matter how short and dull. But chains tend to be among the most lasting and astute. Only rust of corrosion, or the weakness of time, can make them frail enough to be broken. And once broke, are almost impossible to realign and repair.

This child however, barely sprouting into a young woman, was so developed—to the point where usurpation was a forgotten concept—that the ability to contemplate defeat in that position so sacred and benign and unchanging since its taking, was both shocking, inflaming and fear instilling.

Her attempt to split the mud man before her into two, was met with resistance. It did not want to die. For the lines, made distinct only by interpretation, and thus by will, was now made thin and able to be cut.

Despite looking like its physique would forbid such, the being moved with an unprecedented quickness. Leaving its former quarry behind, its legs sprinted to the side before making headway toward the girl. All material of its person clinging to the figure, the muds going up and down and trickling every which way, so long as it still maintained its role as components of its prospective being. No person can live without blood, likewise this creature was just as reliant on the mush.

Barely even three seconds elapsed before its sprint, before it forced itself upon her.

It had no claws of neither hardened nor dried sediment. It had no shell of condensed earth. It had no shards of rock or stone. It had nothing to really cause a cut. It had no inlaid strength in its form that suggested a stable stance and it certainly did not seemed to be that durable, mud tended to feel like mush.

But that it never meant it could not fight—or at least struggle.

Despite its looks, it certainly had the power of superior force, for Hinamori couldn't dislodge it. It clung to her like gum to a desk, and pounded her like she was a rag doll. Tackling her so quickly and without restraint, it practically melded into her upon contact as it made her fall to the ground. A high figure now fallen. The slick and moist mud now clinging to her small form. Trapping her hands and constraining her limbs and nearly smothering her mouth. The mud was falling and enveloping her, leaving no amount of skin untouched, so that she may be entrapped. As if its form had in its possession, compressed mud of a regions worth, it seemed to have an endless supply of mud.

She struggled. Oh, how she struggled. Trying to muster every amount of strength so that she may gain a free arm or leg. But it was futile. Even her blade was lost in the quick submerge-er, and her constant movement only made her own consumption that much faster. She tried to move her arm only to find it stuck by the pressure within the trapped space. She tried to move her legs, only to find that the sheer weight simply crushed its ability to do so.

Fists and outstretched hands were coming down upon her. On her back, on her arms, on her neck, on her face, on her legs. An echoing, empty, scream blowing the smell of earth into her face as it outstretched its 'mouth' to degradingly grasp and clamp down her arm. A lot more pressure than she expected-a lot more. She could have sworn her heard a bone crack. But it didn't matter. It didn't stop beating, with all of its ferocity and desperation, it continued bashing her delicate form, screaming still. Every crack of a bone shattered, every bruise of black and purple upon skin and shards more deeply embedded was greeted with only more wailing. Some from her, some from her attacker.

No more. It would take no more. It would much rather suffocate her, pulverize her and beat her than allow her to ignore, oppress or kill it. It had, at least, that much choice. And it was proving its power to enact it.

She looked around herself, amidst the pounds and grounds: at the enemies that surrounded her, at the land that was dangerous to her and at the sun that steadily dimming in her vision—her eyes being blinded by earth as it corroded her face. The sting of dirty substance made her eyes red and watering, before it went dark. But she could still hear, and she still tried to move. But it was futile, her limbs finally resigned to the power that it simply saw no hope in escape.

She was gagging again, loosing breath, the feeling of dirt sliding and drudging down her throat worse than that of liquid—and tasted just as bad, if not worse. There was nothing quite like having the air inside you compress into your lungs as its only escape route was being filled. As for what air did escape, it did not return for exactly the same reason.

She was going to die here wasn't she….?

"The hollow breath, the overflowing material, the damnable smothering! What have you _forgotten_ Momo? What have you _imagined_?"

It was muffled, but she still heard it; the stern, disappointed voice of the bird. Still maintaining its stand on the sands watching her, she would imagine.

She had never seen this being before. Never has she known that her inner realm was the home of this 'mud man'. Her inner realm was only supposed to encompass only two beings; one for her and one for…someone.

But what the relevance of that now? She didn't know, nor was she thinking about it. Processing the creeping death was her only concern now. She could feel the breath finally reaching zero, the dulling of her senses as unconsciousness started to settle in, the haziness of her mind and the slight aching of various parts of her body as they steadily started to lose their function.

Everything was rendered numb and dull. So she waited, she could do nothing else, but wait. She allowed the darkness to creep, to suffocate and enshroud. She allowed the oblivion to further the cracks and deepen the abyss. She allowed the silence to leave her deaf and devour every other sense she held onto.

It was so different from the gaping, hungry darkness from before. It was so…..comforting. Everything seemed so still, so much in a perfect stasis that all troubles did not exists, or were forever concealed. But she knew no troubles and remembered no values of pain or happiness—they had been swallowed. The sound of life, even the rushing of her blood and bleating of her heart, could not be heard.

So with this, in time ever going and ever lingering: she closed her eyes, lulled her mind and remained still. Time was irrelevant, as all perceptions were null and void. Who cared if 5 minutes passed? Or a year? Or a millennia?

But slowly, and surely—because every change to the darkness was so acutely recognizable precisely because it was a perfect stasis—it was starting to fade.

Life was being brought back in; with all of its versatility and movements. The sound of her rushing blood left her deaf. Feelings came back—in all of its intensity and strength. Memories came back—bringing the feelings it hid with them as well, and adding impulses to her limbs. Her body—now suddenly rejuvenated back into life.

She was alive, and thus just as entitled to pain as any. But then, she was never dead.

Her eyes winced at the sun, a few movements and she realized that sand was covering her body in an uncomfortable manner.

She blinked her chocolate eyes a few times more before sitting up. Only to come and see the mudman again, only…he wasn't mud anymore.

It was a shell. A shell of dried sand and hollow insides, crumbling to at some point or another, become one with this region once more—if it hasn't already….

The pile around it's feet was obviously just accumulated, and it was prominent in size. Its face was still, even when shamed with dry sediments, pitiful; still twisted in frustration and sorrow.

"This is the price for treason."

She didn't have to look towards it origin. She made eye contact with it, if only for a moment. If it showed either relief or hate, or both, even the phoenix did not know.

But it craned its neck further, to listen to her single murmur "…..how senseless…"

It looked at her for a moment before stating, regaining its cocky attitude as it retorted "Nothing is senseless. Everything clause, cause and laws. I have claws too." Picking the said extensions on its thin feet "Best you find yours too."

"But what crime did this thing make?" she asked.

"I thought you already knew. Didn't you regard it as a blasphemous anomaly just a moment ago?"

Was it a moment? Surely not. But perhaps, to this being that seemed to be just as bound by this world as she, it was a moment.

"But it is just that! But I meant 'why me'! Why attack the being that owns this plane!?"

At this, it seemed offended; but then, minds tend to only belong to one person, even when it is isn't. But the slight annoyance was still shown in its eyes as it stiffened. "Don't be pompous. You are not a queen of the forlorn. But you are however, a dictator of the anguished."


	7. Shards

A/N Sorry I was late, I was in the middle of a writer's block. Then I got sick, complete with headaches and coughing. Then I went back to writer's block. Just on a side note though I am finding it harder and harder to find other words for sand and mud. I for one noticed that I used the term "mush" not only more than I would like, but close together. Like a bad type of repetition, that seems so mundane to me.

Furthermore, I apologize for the late update. I had the general plan for this story all laid out in 4 stages, and I am struggling to complete the 1st. hopefully with this, I can get a jumpstart on stage 2. But imagine I will burn it all up in less than 2, maybe 3 more chapters. So I apologize in advance.

Just Fall, My Dear

Chapter 7

She was staring at the hollow shell, watching it crumble and decimate to useless sediment. Shame really, how such a being was wiped from its living existence. Thought it wasn't much of an existence in the first place, it struggled with an upmost passion. So from that perspective, at least, one can call it admirable.

But somehow, even though it was (literally) becoming dust in the wind, Momo felt…sorry for it. Yet at the same time, the thought of "this is how it should be" rung throughout her head. What purpose, what use and what relevance did this creature have to her and her world? Nothing. Or at least, nothing she knew of.

But it didn't matter now. It was gone.

However, even with the silence, the phoenix made a surprising statement, making a slight notion toward the remains "What was pushed away is now your sanity's sway. Instead of vanquishing these remnants, cull them to your will. Or you may be forever at a standstill." The apparent focus in his eyes only reassured Momo that those words were chosen with care, and she quite sure that they held no deceit.

She looked at the corps, and only after closer inspection did she find a certain twinkling object starting to stick out, almost completely hidden by sand. Truly a tiny thing. Barely a little glint nearly completely smudged over by sand.

Hinamori lent out a hand, she herself now having a sparked curiosity about to grasp the shard, only to recoil for a second at the sudden blazing texture that was quickly replaced with a freezing sensation when her fingers were only one millimeter away from its surface. It was only for a moment, however, as she quickly came and grasped ahold of it quickly. Surely such a response meant something—even if it was bad, she wanted to grasp it.

Such an experience that she has never felt before overtook her senses, like a shockwave. She felt cold all over her skin, distinctly cold, and her head was swarmed with images, colors, movements and her soul was bombarded with feelings, emotions and thoughts. Some left her feeling warm on the inside, others not so much. Words were acutely heard and actions were clearly seen. These flashes of experiences forgotten simply kept on swarming in her head.

However, despite how awful yet beautiful these memories were, there was absolutely no feeling of detachment. The feeling of recollection, like picking up a book that was forgotten, was nowhere to be found. So, no; callings these mere 'memories' was almost inaccurate. It was more like reliving them, as if it was the first time such things happened to her. The pain brought on was not through a provoking image or of remembrance, but of genuine pain. Every texture of skin and steel was clearly registered only by her nerves and not by her brain and its inferences.

She gasped, desperate for an intake of breath once she came back to (her) reality. Then a step back, to regain her composure from an unsteady mind.

Her eyes were dilated, wide from shock. Her breath was coming in pants and her hands were trembling terribly. She was scared, to say the least "W-what was that?"

With that decorum so neatly kept, it deemed that question worthy of an answer "Oh? For someone who "owns" this plane you sure do know so little. That, my dear, is exactly what it appeared to be: experiences. They had to be kept somewhere. "Anywhere but here", as I heard it. A memory kept in your possession, then left in the midst that remnants oppression." At this, its expression darkened, its eyes now more focused on something that wasn't here—distant yet intense in its stare. Its back now lowered a bit and what might be considered a growl or hiss was quietly erupting from its throat, despite its closed beak.

Shuffling its feet, and a stretch of its posture, it then continued, noting her defenseless posture "If you wish to make use of those pictures, textures and voice fluctures, then keep them close. They can be enjoyed and indulged as a fine wine—a glorified depressant that can give the sensation of a burn and the effect of calm or excitement. Both are quite enjoyable. Further you will find that they are invaluable to your preservation…..but if you value your salvation you can set it aside if you want. Freedom of revolution, after all, cannot occur with a hint of a single solution. Why else was there a revolution in the first place?" it tiled its head to the side a bit, only to chuckle to itself a moment later.

Momo peered at the crystal, still not quite sure what to make of it. A small sight escaped her lips, barely audible, and she closed her eyes. Of the many things she saw, there were still many questions—blanks that had yet to even be smudged "Are there any more?"

"What made you think there was more? You had a good hold of them, but you lost them. Some never lasted long. Others were never there. Even though they were. Just not _really _there. Just care about what is left, yes?"

"That didn't answer my question. Now answer." She steadied herself, and repositioned the sword in her sash.

At this it gave a guffaw "And what makes you think, "Master", that you can demand such vital information from me? It's not like I have possession to the key to the door you locked. All I know is where it isn't, and it's not here."

She gave the bird a grimace and a sharp glare, before walking onward.

The bird did nothing but follow. Through the endless looking desert, it followed. The winds had picked up, she noticed. But the horizon, she decided, was what she would follow. The sun was setting, painting the sky with hues of red and orange.

As she continued walking, she could not help but take in the sight. It was beautiful, to say the least, even in this deprived place. But it was comforting thought that, hopefully, no matter where she went, the sky would be the same. She felt a slight nostalgia as she continued her march, her eyes seemingly unable to turn her head away from the sunset.

She wasn't sure why, or how, but she was distinctly sure that she _enjoyed_ the sight of a sunset. But she also felt a distinct….lacking. Like something should be there, but isn't.

'_Huh. Everything is wrong, isn't it?'_

She gripped the shard tighter in her hand, before promptly placing it inside her shihakusho. Then she took a deep breath, letting the breath course through her lungs.

Already she saw it; the small bits of black dotting the landscape, bringing whiffs of repugnancy with it. Very small in multitude, but its origins still had be sought out and shattered. They have with them what she now sought. What she held precious.

Those bits of glass, those shards of crystal, she wanted the ones that were hers and get rid of the ones scrounged from the wasteland that she called a mind. The ones that weren't results of destruction and deterioration. She wanted the ones of conservation and perhaps revelation.


	8. Acknowledge Remembrance

Just Fall, My Dear

Chapter 8: Acknowledge Remembrance

Her pace was quick, eager to reach what should be her destination. But she was frustrated regardless of how much ground her feet travelled. She had been walking for a long amount of time, much more than she would have preferred. What was once irritation steadily grew bit by bit the more she trudged onward—she saw all of the solid murk in all of its rotten glory ever rising in frequency and yet the crystal fissures that should behold the sludge's opaque core were nowhere to be seen or found. The signs of them were everywhere and yet she still could not find even a hint of its beginning.

The ground itself was stained with it; the former terrain of brown bits that was once almost golden in the light, now seeped in full articulate sets of shades—black, grey and other dull pigments were all that she could make out now. With this change, Momo could not help but feel utter contempt being melded with her bubbling frustration.

She had been walking long enough for the sun to steep even lower to the horizon; that ball of light once fully beheld in the sky was now half-deep, and only rays of red showed, painting the sky in crimson with a touch of pink at its edge.

But she would not be angry, no, anger was only something you commonly received when a being _knowingly_ and _willingly_ performed an action that you did not like and did not make you sad. When circumstances would or could have turned out differently. In truth, one can be mad at anything. That was what anger was. But she found herself higher than that simple regard, as she reminded herself that these beings were anything but independent sentient creatures. They were, in many ways, her mistakes and her wretched spawn.

For these beings, the ones of which she now hunted, her anger would be misdirected if she had even a handful of it in her mind. This search was much more akin to stopping an infection or virus. The beings she sought were just as insignificant; like bugs she crushes beneath her feet, or characters killed in a videogame. She would feel no mercy. When was the last time you heard someone mourn over a dead bird on the road? Or the death of a rat that has invaded you home?

'…_movement?'_

It was slight, but she could have sworn she saw grime moving ever so slightly, slithering across the ground like rain that seeps down a glass window. Amazing that her eyes would actually see that, as such thin miniature streams would be almost completely camouflaged into the scenery of similar colors. But it was the light that alerted her, she was sure. Despite being completely corrupted with pollution from god knows where, the muck still has a phosphorescent quality much like water, and gleamed with every ray of light that touched it before the same rays were dulled. But still a reflection, none the less.

No doubt, with the multitude of matter within the thick black liquid, its detailed movements would have been slightly more akin to tentacles, or perhaps writhing junk. Bumps would have been seen where—under normal circumstances of a liquid—they should not have been, distinct edged points would have stuck out like a sore thumb and the substance itself would have clung to its place of anchor, not being so willing to move.

But that slight movement, like the movement of a deathly leech from beyond, disappeared just as quickly as her eyes darted toward it.

Thus, she darted forward, not too keen on letting the single hint of imitated life out of her reach. Her sprint caused many little droplets erupt from the ground with every quick step she took, which was why her feet became half stuck into the 'sand' by the time she reached the top of the hill.

She grimaced as she stood there, eyeing the blobs that were now steadily starting to form ahead of her, their figures bobbing at times, from side to side as if it were struggling, as their bodies became more distinct. Disgusting. Distasteful. Distraught. Dissolution.

As if escaping from a prison, clawing at its freedom, a refracted translucent hand of glass appeared from the murk; bits of glass now poking through the dark, heavy, oil-like substance (of which it surpasses even the rotting stench that burns with a rancid odor-quite a feat, for it is considered pollution incarnate).

With a hand on her blade, ever grasping the cold handle, watching ever more as the trash started rising from the depths, she waited till they were fully un-submerged. For what would happen if she disposed of them and they merely returned to the unfathomable depths, taking the shards with them?

For those memories, those that were distinctly hers, she would brave many fights over, and transverse the dangers of such fights, for those memories.

Which was why, when they finally freed themselves from the grounds, she charged forward. The sludge still restrained them, however, and their movements were slightly sluggish—very easy to take advantage of, had she herself been free from the black waves. The substance clung to her like goo, with her feet were now submerged, and not even the shifting sands could suck it up fast enough. The terrain was gorged in it, and simply could not take any more, and was, if fact, now starting to regurgitate it.

The crystal figures, still arduous in their intent to stab, skewer and render her, did not seem to care one way or another. They still reached for her, grabbed for her, tried to swerve towards her. They still spewed the gunk out of them through every crack and crevice, including their arms, legs, mouth, neck, head…..to say they were heavily burdened with it would be an understatement.

Cracks were heard, shattering glass was felt, bits and pieces were falling towards the grounds, entire 'limbs' severed and cut off. The silent sounds of skin being ripped open, of bones being stabbed, of red fluid flowing and of hair whipping. Bogged down as they may be, they still had numbers, edged weaponry, and favorable terrain. Have you tried to punch glass? Very blood-releasing, no matter how thin the crack.

Now chanting and muttering words, she effectively started dispatching spells one after another, careful not to incinerate them entirely. Her movements, now renewed with certainty of memory, pierced ever more so finely, cut ever more precisely, and struck ever more firmly. That in itself, made up for her creaking bones, and reluctant, bruised limbs.

But still, with every dent made, her hands were marred with blood and scratches. With every swing, glass sprayed out and threatened her skin, and riddled the grounds (hidden by the black swamp) with un-seeable spikes. With every chant and focused mind, she risked being grabbed and stabbed. She wasn't exactly perfect with her bout either. They still managed to slash down her back, and stab her shoulders, and grab her arms and bite her legs….

Blood was mixing with dark earth, and her own movements were starting to become slow due to fatigue-something of which her opponents lack, for they did not tire, nor did they become increasingly weary of the battle being dragged out. Her breath was frantic, laced with slight panic and attempted calm. She panted with tired eyes, ever vigilant of incoming swings and stabs, of stings and grabs.

But the end always comes, as did this battle, long and slow. A few shaky twitches and breaths, and she calmed a bit. Now surveying the terrain around her once more, now worthy of being called a battlefield, with 'bodies' littering the now-swampy terrain, with sharped objects sticking out of the grounds. Searching through the muddy black would be time-consuming and troublesome she knew. But she still searched for them.

On all fours, with her knees sinking at times, and with her hands now incapable of being clean, she felt around blindly, at times scarring her hands further when she picked up a stray shard. Other times it was her legs that felt the edged sting(s), and no longer did battle serve to distract from dead odors and of rotting stenches. It smelled of rotting flesh and of dead material, and she had no guard or distraction from it. It seemed that even the bird was so disgusted that it was nowhere within her sight.

It was so powerful and repugnant, that she felt like she was going to hurl. The texture was so grimy and thick that she felt that she could rid herself of the filth now that she had to search through it. She gagged many times, and other times she moaned; her bones creaked, her scars stung, her bruises throbbed and her mind was thoroughly worn out. She had to sustain her herself more than once, having to apply weight to her arms on the grounds, only to move them due to the sinking, shifting mud that lies beneath. More than once had she accidentally put her full weight onto rouge fragments, stabbing her already bloodied appendages.

It didn't help that when she did find what she sought that she was hit with memories and experiences renewed. She was there but not here, and she stumbled into the black sewage more than once, at times, head first. The recollections hit hard and her body reacted to the not-so-real images and sounds; exalted breath of fear, anger, exhaustion, happiness and skin feeling brushes of skin, textures of clothing, sting of hits. Even some screams at times, at experiencing horrible fathoms and feeling excruciating pain formerly not beheld. The eyes were seeing vibrant colors, specific details and animated movements. All changing so quickly, and the entire ordeal itself being short lived. Being brought back to the current situation, in all of its aches and pains, served to be a real mind-jogger. The severity of which, is heightened by her strained mind and body, being strained even more by her endeavors.

She was found herself pausing, if only to fully take in the feeling of bonds of people renewed and remembered, to take in the serverity of actions taken, to recall the feelings of remembrance to their fullest—remembering _her_ life.

Her hands still roamed the black gloom, blind and without premonition. Her eyes were still glued to her still visible arms, wanting to at least have sight of her remaining limbs. She shifted her legs again, not exactly liking how she felt like she was in quicksand at times. Her hair also, was a mess; constantly having to tuck the stray strands aside, many droplets and strands of the black liquid now found residence near her scalp or otherwise drooped off certain bits of hair, or clung to her face. The grounds even gave way to her weight at certain times, causing her to react in sudden motions to steady herself, but often caused her to splash the gunk onto her face. As if she wasn't filthy and contaminated already.

Her fingertips brushed something smooth from amidst the thick oil, and she peered to her side, repositioning herself so that she may grab the piece. Careful to not scar herself further, she carefully stroked the substance, testing for sharp edges, then carefully slid her fingers around it.

No amount of consoling words, nor happy memories, could redeem her from her onslaught of experiences garnered her now. It wrecked her insides, feelings, emotions, body and soul the more she looked at it, felt it and _experienced_ it with every taste, texture and sight fully imbued and recollected.

Like snuffing out a light from a candle, the black muck was no more, it retreated into either the ground or non-existence. Gone.

Now, that sky, blood red, was the only witness to the sobs and screams that erupted thereafter. Not a single existence lingered. If felt as even though the ground, who was supposed to carry her no matter what, had left her, and it was only her herself that remained. Her, and that sky.

She screamed, she cried, she wept. She continued until her voice was hoarse, her throat raw, until she could emit no other sound any more.

Aizen was all that he was. A figure of authority, who stabbed her in the back.

-X-(End)


End file.
